


Don’t forget me (I won’t forget you)

by ylc



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, In which Jim and Eurus meet way earlier than in canon, M/M, Memory Alteration, References to Past Drug Use, and in a different way too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 14:12:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16766713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ylc/pseuds/ylc
Summary: What do you do, when you can’t trust even your own memories?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this… well.  
> The idea hit me a few days ago and I really liked it, so I wrote it down and I liked it even more. It’s technically just the beginning of the story, I know, but I have two chapters done and I’m going to mark it finished for the moment, because I want to share it, although at this point is more of a very open ending kind of thing :P  
> That being said… enjoy!

The raindrops coming through the open window convince Sherlock he must get out of bed. He doesn’t want to, he’s warm and cozy underneath the heavy blanket and he has no plans for the day, other than trying not to die of boredom. 

He closes the window with a tud, staring outside it absentmindedly. There’s a voice in the back of his head informing him something is wrong, but there’s no real sense of urgency and so he figures it can’t be that important. He looks at the unmade bed, considering the merits of burying himself under the blanket once more, but the bed looks uninviting somehow-- too empty, too…  _ lonely. _

Sherlock frowns, considering. Now, where did that thought come from? He’s had a handful of sexual partners over the years, but he never actually shared a bed. He prefered to do such things at his partners’ homes and then slipping out of the room (and usually their lives) shortly afterwards. It's easier that way, less…  _ messy.  _ And yet the thought rings true-- the bed looks lonely, but why? 

He sits down, placing a hand on the other side of the bed. It's cold, but that's expected, isn't it? It feels wrong, though, in a way he can't begin to understand. 

_ John.  _ The name comes unbidden to his mind, but it tells him nothing. In all likelihood, he's had at least one partner with that name: it is, after all, terribly common. But that's not the answer he seeks, he knows it deep in his bones. The name matters, yes, but why? 

He shakes his head, standing up in an abrupt movement. He feels unsettled, but he tells himself he's being ridiculous. There's something niggling at the back of his head, but for the life of him he can't figure out what's bothering him. 

_ It can't be that important,  _ he tells himself, heading for the kitchen to make himself some breakfast.

And yet--

* * *

There's someone at the kitchen. Sherlock can't see him yet, but he can hear him hum. The melody feels familiar, in a distant way, as if he's heard it before in a dream. He shakes his head once more, wondering where all these fanciful thoughts are coming from. 

There's a man standing by the stove. He’s making breakfast, his back at Sherlock, his blond hair shining in the light that comes from the window. Sherlock’s heart constricts painfully and he doubles over, overwhelmed. He looks up and the man is gone-- in fact, it looks like he was never here.

Sherlock rushes into the kitchen. The dirty dishes from last night wait on the kitchen counter, the stove is deadly cold. No one was making breakfast, there was no man in Sherlock's kitchen and yet--

He looked so real. 

Sherlock gulps. He's a man of logic, not prone to flights of fancy. He's not seeing ghosts, naturally, which means he must be hallucinating. But why now? He's been clean for over two months, he's well past the withdrawal phase and even if he wasn't… Why would he be seeing blonde men making him breakfast? 

“You are the genius, you tell me”. 

He turns around so quickly he whips his neck, but he barely notices the pain. The room remains empty though, no sign of other occupant anywhere in sight. 

Except that's not entirely true, is it? Here and there he can see trinkets that don't belong to him: a pillow on top of a chair, a cane gathering dust in one corner. A laptop sitting next to his, papers with notes written by someone else’s hand. 

Sherlock rushes back into his bedroom, just to find signs of another occupant there too. He throws open the closet and finds jackets that don't belong to him, that are way too small to fit him. One drawer reveals an assembly of hideous jumpers he wouldn't be caught dead wearing and a sock drawer completely disorganized right beneath his perfectly organized one. 

He looks around the room wildly and the memories start pouring back. John, John Hamish Watson. John, his flatmate, turned friend, turned lover. John, the love of his life. 

What happened? Why couldn't he remember John just a few minutes ago? Did he hit his head during a case? Likely, of course, but why did John leave his side if he was hurt? 

No, something doesn't quite fit. Something--

The front door opens and Sherlock runs in the direction of it. “John, what--” 

It's not John the one at the door, but Mrs. Hudson, bearing a tray with tea. “Oh, you gave me an scare!” she chides goodnaturedly. “Coming out of the bedroom like that. Really Sherlock--” 

“Mrs. Hudson, where's John?” he asks brusquely, a sense of anxiety taking over him. Something is wrong, overly so, but--

“John? Who's John, dear?” she asks, looking honestly perplexed and Sherlock's blood runs cold. 

“John Watson,” Sherlock says, but Mrs. Hudson shows no sign of recognition. “My… flatmate?”

“Flatmate?” Mrs. Hudson asks, sounding amused. “Now that's a funny idea! You, a flatmate!” she laughs good naturedly, oblivious to Sherlock's increasing panic. 

“Sherlock, where are you going?” she calls after him, but Sherlock is deaf to it, too caught into his panic to notice anything as he rushes out of the flat and into the street, with no clear direction in mind, just knowing he needs to find John and he needs to do it now.

Something is indeed very wrong.

He has no idea how wrong just yet.

* * *

“Sherlock, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Lestrade demands once the consulting detective storms into his office, a couple of younger Constables on his heel, looking quite out of breath.

“Sorry Greg,” Sally says, appearing at the door. “He wouldn’t listen to anyone.”

Lestrade waves a hand dismissively and the woman leaves with the two Constables, throwing one last dark glare in Sherlock’s direction. The young man doesn’t even notice though, a wild look on his face that worries the Inspector right away.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” he repeats, standing up and going to stand in front of the other man. “What has you so worked up? And why are you still in your pajamas?”

Sherlock shakes his head, dismissing the Inspector’s concern. He has bigger problems right now than his attire. “I don’t know where John is,” he says, desperately. “I can’t remember when was the last time I saw him and--”

“Whoa, slow down!” Lestrade interrupts, placing a hand on his shoulder. “First things first; who’s John?”

No. No, it can’t be. “You don’t remember?” Sherlock asks, even more desperate now, panic rising once more. “I couldn’t remember him either this morning, but then I did and now-- come on Lestrade, you must remember!”

“Sherlock I honest to god don’t know what you’re talking about!” the Inspector says, sternly. “You need to calm down and--”

“No!” Sherlock exclaims, pulling away. “I need to find John!” he repeats, all too aware of how broken his voice sounds, of the fear ever present in his tone. “I need to find John,” he pleads and Lestrade’s gaze is soft and full of pity, but there’s no recognition in his eyes, no matching sense of urgency that would be there if Lestrade remembered John too.

“Sherlock, you’re… you’re not fine,” Lestrade says and that’s when Sherlock notices he’s shaking and crying silently, making a spectacle of himself. “Why don’t you sit down for a little while, huh? I’ll call Mycroft and we can figure this out together, alright?”

_ No, he has no time to waste.  _ John is in danger, evidently, but no one will understand, will they?

Before he can say anything though, the Inspector has locked him inside his office and Sherlock suddenly finds he doesn’t have the energy to even attempt to break out. He collapses on a chair, still crying silently and holds his head in his arms, telling himself he needs to keep breathing.

Something is very  _ very  _ wrong.

But what can he do about it?

* * *

“Sherlock, what have you taken this time?” his brother asks tiredly and Sherlock can’t summon the energy to glare. He’s perfectly clean, has been for a long time in fact and yet--

“I don’t have time for this,” Sherlock hisses darkly. “I need to find John.”

Mycroft frowns, no recognition lighting up his eyes and Sherlock’s heart sinks to his stomach. Somehow, John’s existence has been whipped out from the minds of the people they know, but how or why remains a mystery. Not that it matters, at least not right now: the whys and the hows can be worked out later, once John is safe once again.

“And who is this John you speak of?” Mycroft asks and Sherlock sighs, turning to stare at the ceiling. 

He wonders who he can trust, he wonders who’ll believe him. His brother won’t, that’s for certain and he can’t exactly blame him given their shared past, but it still stings. He doubts Lestrade will either, for similar reasons and so he finds himself alone, forced to embark on the most difficult case of his career completely on his own.

“Nevermind,” he says, standing up and breezing past his brother. Mycroft calls for him, but Sherlock ignores him, just as he ignores Lestrade, who shows up shortly after. He storms out of the Yard, ignoring the curious and annoyed glances he drags as he walks.

Once outside, he takes a deep breath, willing himself to calm down. Nothing will be gained by panicking, what he needs right now is to come up with a plan and for that--

He gets the feeling he’s being watched, which makes him look around. On the other side of the street, a woman in an elegant red coat stands. Her dark curly hair falls all over her face, obscuring her features. Sherlock squints, watching her; she seems familiar, somehow, but he can’t quite place her. The feeling of irreality from the early morning comes back and he scowls at the notion: what has gotten into him today?

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says, showing up behind him, making Sherlock look away from the woman just for a brief second and yet, by the time he looks back at her, she’s gone, as if she was never really there.

“Sherlock, what’s got into you now?” the Inspector demands, stepping in front of him, hands on his hips. “You’re acting weird. Weirder than usual, that is.”

Sherlock continues staring at the place where the woman disappeared, searching for clues of where she could have gone. Lestrade keeps chiding him,being joined by Mycroft shortly after, but Sherlock ignores them, trying to put together a puzzle inside his head; a puzzle he’s fairly certain he’s lacking pieces.

But he’ll have to make do.

What other choice does he have?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And as I promised, here’s the other chapter! Enjoy?

It’s a bit of a dissapointment, truth to be told.

When Jim first came across the blueprints for what it looked like the safest facility in the whole planet, he had expected to find something…  _ interesting  _ waiting inside. All kinds of illegal experiments, perhaps, dangerous chemicals being tested,  _ mass destruction weapons  _ most likely. Something being guarded so zealously, had to be the most dangerous weapon in the world.

And yet--

“Oh, but I am,” the woman behind the glass panel tells him, smiling. “The most dangerous weapon in the world, I mean.”

Jim frowns. Surely he didn’t voice his disappointment out loud? “You didn’t,” the woman says, still smiling and Jim frowns deepens. He’s read of such things, of course, but mostly in works of science fiction and comic books. He’s never read any serious study, conducted by serious researchers that suggest telephats actually exist.

“That’s because I’m the one and only,” the woman replies, pressing her hands against the glass panel. “Why don’t you let me out, so I can show you what I can do?” her smile is a little crazed, her dark locks falling messily around her face and her thin cotton nightgown does nothing to make her look any crazier. Still--

“What’s the point of this fancy place?” Jim asks, looking around the room, surveying the many controls. It’s obvious someone took great pains to assure the woman stayed in, but she doesn’t seem so dangerous. Sure, she can read people’s thoughts but--

“I can do much more than that,” she snaps and she sounds angry, but she quickly goes to her former placid stance, tilting her head to the side, dropping her eyes to the ground. A submissive posture, except it’s all for show. “The glass-- it’s an especial amalgamation. It reduces my powers… although it can’t make them disappear completely.”

Jim hums thoughtfully. “If I let you out-- how do I know you won’t turn on me?”

“You don’t,” the woman says, a soft giggle escaping her. “I’ll say you’ll have to trust my word, but you trust nobody, do you, Jim?” she presses her hands against the glass once more, something akin to desperation shining in the depth of her eyes. “But I can give you what you desire the most. Let me out and I’ll make the world burn for you.”

“I can make the world burn on my own, thank you very much.”

“Not like I can,” the woman insists, her fingertips tapping against the glass in an almost hyptonitical manner. “Let me out and you’ll never be bored again.”

“That’s a promise not easily kept,” he says.

Jim stops in front of her, watching her closely. She’s a little taller than himself, but terribly skinny. He’s never been much of a fighter, but he reckons he could defend himself quite well and he could always call one of his men if he needed it.

But it’s not about a physical attack what he should be worrying about, is it?

The woman giggles, amused. “Indeed not,” she agrees. “But I would not hurt you, Jim. Why would I, when you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever known of?” she’s standing too close to the glass, her whole body practically pressed against it. “My brother’s files on you are most entertaining.”

“Brother?” Jim asks, as an idea starts forming inside his head. He thought she looked familiar, in a distant way.

She giggles once more, delighted, finally stepping away from the glass, merrily skipping towards the center of the room, where she makes a dramatic reverence. “Eurus Holmes, at your service,” she declares grandly. “Mycroft’s been following your exploits for the longest time, although he hadn’t figured your identity until you took a personal interest on our  _ darling  _ brother Sherlock,” she scoffs, her face twisting in disgust and Jim can’t help the smirk that comes unbidden to her lips. “That wasn’t very smart of you.”

Jim doesn’t answer, figuring he doesn’t need to. If she wants answers, she can search for them inside his brain for all he cares; he knows he should be wary of her power, perhaps even a tad scared but he’s never felt things the way  _ regular, boring  _ people do.

He goes back to the controls, until he finds the one which opens the door leading inside the glass room. It’s not clear how they’ve managed to restrain her when someone goes in, to avoid her escaping, but Jim figures he won’t appreciate the question.

“You’ve got yourself a deal, Ms. Holmes,” he tells her, going to meet her at the door. “Let’s see what you can do.”

Eurus grins, a manic smile that would put fear into the bravest of souls. Any reasonable,  _ sane _ person would be making a run for their lives, but Jim has never claimed to be either. 

And isn’t Eurus glad that’s the case?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, thoughts anyone?
> 
> It’s more the begining of a much bigger, longer thing, but right now I have no plans on expanding it. I just really  _ really  _ wanted to write these scenes and well… here they are ;)
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> So, thoughts anyone?  
> As I said, I have another chapter done and I’ll be posting it very soon. Hope you enjoyed this first one!  
> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, pretty please?  
> English is not my native language, so any mistakes you find, please point them out!  
> You can also find me in [tumblr](http://ylc1.tumblr.com/)


End file.
